


To the Next Six Thousand Years

by IrelaNictari, LaviBookman



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrelaNictari/pseuds/IrelaNictari, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaviBookman/pseuds/LaviBookman
Summary: Crowley writes letters to his Angel. They're found and published two centuries later.A Conversation ensues.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 28





	To the Next Six Thousand Years

Aziraphale often wondered if he’d _ever_ stop being surprised by Crowley’s often incredibly roundabout way of doing things. At least, when it came to anything personal. Oh, he could be most direct when the situation called for it, but when it came to feelings and anything associated with them? Half-truths and obfuscations, although at least after six thousand years the angel had learned to read behind his sometimes-partner’s words to the meaning beneath.

Granted, it’s not like they didn’t have _time_ ; they were immortal, more or less, after all, and eternity often got rather boring if you always took the quick way ‘round. And, he supposed, it _had_ taken several millennia for humans to invent paper and ink. Writing letters on clay (or worse, stone) tablets took _forever,_ after all- the bad kind of forever, monotonous, tedious, often frustrating, since a single misstep often meant having to start over entirely.

And, the angel admitted with the fond sort of sigh he rarely let slip when Crowley was actually around to hear it, neither of them had really thought a relationship between an angel and a demon was a _good_ idea. Not that they did _now_ , of course, in the sense that most of the ranks of both Heaven and Hell would have massive hissy fits (literally, in some of the demons’ cases) if they found out, but just at that particular moment in time, neither of them really could bring themselves to care.

Besides, as Aziraphale had discovered just that morning, Crowley had been invested in this particular act of rebellion for several centuries now.

The revelation in question had happened in the _oddest_ of locations. He’d been browsing the history shelves at the new mega-bookstore that had opened in downtown London the week before. It was something of a hobby of his, reading human history books. Of course, he spent a great deal of time shaking his head at the tendency- or, rather, the at times rather comical _determination_ \- of humans to get even the most basic of facts almost _entirely_ wrong. 

Regardless, the book he’d found (rather by accident, as it had been mis-shelved in the romance section and he’d only noticed it in passing because the lurid red cover was much the same shade as Crowley’s hair) was a perfect example of that tendency. It wasn’t really the author’s fault this time, though.

After all, almost no one _really_ believed in angels and demons anymore, did they? 

Still, the title had intrigued him enough to pick it up, at least. _Confessions of a Demon Lover: the Unsent and Unpublished Letters of one A.J.Cr. to His Angel_ was stamped in gold embossed letters on the cover; a trifle overdone, in his opinion, but certainly eye-catching, which was probably the point. The summary on the back listed it as a collection of love letters discovered in Paris, most dated sometime after the French Revolution.

_Well then._

Historical romance had always been something of a weak spot for him. It was rather hard to argue with letters, after all. And watching humans fumble around, trying to make sense of relationships, had helped give him the patience to wait for his oft-infuriating yet somehow always-intriguing… well. He was never _entirely_ sure what the correct term for the two of them was- partners? Frenemies? Rivals? No, not that, not really- but whatever it was, he was fairly certain Crowley didn’t know it either. But that was more than alright. As much as he loved the written word, and all the ways humanity had used it, sometimes one just _had_ to go the roundabout way.

It was with more than a touch of voyeuristic glee that he opened the book to the first page. There was a short introduction, of course, detailing where the letters had been found (an old, abandoned house on the outskirts of Paris) and by whom (the author’s father). There was also a note that said that neither A.J.Cr or his Angel had ever been identified. The records of the house’s ownership had disappeared some time ago, and nothing else had been found that pointed to either’s identity. All well and good, but it was the _letter_ that had him snapping the cover shut and racing (in a calm, dignified, _English_ sort of way) to the checkout.

Five minutes in a queue and a twenty minute tube ride later, he was home, on his couch, the book propped on his lap as he read.

_Paris, France, 19.9.1793_

_Dearest Angel,_

_Of all the seemingly endless number of possibly stupid things I’ve done over the many years we’ve known each other, writing this letter may be one of the stupidest. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage to actually send it. And if certain of our brethren found it, there’s a fairly good chance it won’t end well, for either of us._

_But, like everything else, I’m doing it anyway. Because, Angel, I just_ might _be wrong. It would hardly be the first time._

_Anyway._

_Something hit me yesterday. A feeling, one I think might have been creeping up for quite some time. It’s nothing I’ve felt before. Well, not like this. You and I both know the definitions of certain emotions are more than a little vague, and more than a lot fractured. And you and I, being who and what we are, never really have conformed to anyone’s ideas of anything anyway._

_Bloody Hell, this is harder than I thought._

_Do you remember the first time we saw Hamlet? Ah, you loved that play. I never really cared for it- still don’t, although I suppose I sympathize with Hamlet’s dilemma on occasion- but the way your eyes lit up was_ something _to see._

_Speaking of Will, read his 17th sonnet sometime. It could very well be about you._

_(Here, several lines are scratched out. Time and a rather bad job of photocopying the letter have rendered whatever might have been under the scratches completely illegible.)_

_What I’m trying to say here, Angel, is that I think I like you. Not in a let’s-be-friends sort of way, we’ve had that for more years than I care to count, but an I-feel-better-when-you’re-around way, possibly coupled with more than a touch of I-wish-we-weren’t-always-apart._

_Gah. I was never good at sentimental. That’s always been your territory._

_Well, if nothing else, we’ll always have Paris._

_Eternally your Demon,_

_A.J.Cr_

_A.J.Cr_

_Antony J. Crowley_

There were something like fifty letters in the book, scattered over the span of several decades. Some were short, more than a few were incomplete (one even leaving off mid-word, as if the author had been called away in a hurry), and a few…

A few skirted rather close to actually using the word _love_.

All of the analyses were utter garbage, naturally. Of _course_ it was a forbidden romance, but not everything was Romeo and Juliet. Still…

Aziraphale reached over, retrieving his mobile from the coffee table. There were only a few numbers saved on it, and he selected one, staring at the contact photo for a moment before pressing the _call_ button. It picked up after the first ring, as it did whenever he dialed that particular number.

“Crowley? I find myself in the mood for crepes. Care to join me?”

  
  


_Two hours later, in a little cafe in Paris…_

Crowley stared at the book, his green eyes wide with horror as he flipped through the pages. He’d almost completely forgotten about that house and those letters; mostly, that was because he’d spent a vast majority of those three decades _incredibly_ drunk. And, upon further reflection, his past self had been quite right- it _was_ one of the stupider things he’d done.

And yet, he didn’t regret doing it. Couldn’t, not when that look of exasperated fondness was so clear on Azi’s face.

That same fondness was in the angel’s voice as he spoke.

“Why didn’t you just _tell_ me this two centuries ago, Crowley?”

“I…” The demon paused. He’d been trying, mostly successfully, to _not_ lie to the angel any more than he could help it. Which didn’t really leave him with a lot of options in this particular scenario. 

Not good ones, anyway. 

Finally, he sighed.

“I wanted to. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

Crowley grimaced. “Hells bells, I was scared, alright? And usually drunk, but mostly scared. We’ve been friends for a long time, Angel. I didn’t want to mess that up. Not when I wasn’t entirely sure what it was I was feeling.”

Aziraphale _hmphed_ quietly, somewhat mollified. “And now?”

“Now?” A hand ran through red hair. “After everything… I can’t imagine _not_ having you around. I still don’t really know if it’s l… lo…”

“Love?” the angel asked, amused.

“Yeah, that,” Crowley continued grumpily. “But whatever… _that_ … is, it’s only gotten stronger since then. You know how I am with all that _gushy_ stuff." He waved a hand derisively, his face just as grumpy as his tone. "We demons don't _do_ love."

"I think you could, if you wanted to." Aziraphel said simply, his warm tone back. "Angels aren't supposed to ‘do love’ either, you know. Not like that, anyway. It distracts us from doing His will, they say. But I believe that if God wills it to Be, who are we to say no?"

"Well, they've already tried to kill us once, and it didn't work. Doubt they'll try again anytime in the next few millennia. It would be admitting they don't believe it was His will we lived," the demon replied, his chin resting in his hand. "Who knows? By then maybe we'll have saved the world again."

"Oh, I do hope the world doesn't need saving again. It was so stressful the first time. At least if it does, it shan't have anything to do with us." The angel smiled softly. "Although I would not mind the chance to work alongside you again. It was… rather enjoyable, if one ignores the fact that the world was at stake."

"It was, wasn't it?" A grin crossed Crowley's lips. "Always has been, Angel. One of the reasons I fell for you, probably. In six thousand years, you have _never_ been boring." 

"There are plenty of humans who would disagree with you, love. To many my life is plain and boring, but many would think yours is too extravagant and overly outrageous. I, however… I am just a bit fond of it." His smile turned a bit shy here. "I do believe I am rather fond of the one who lives it as well."

“Well, we agree on that much.” The grin widened, and he took a sip of the truly excellent wine they'd been served. “Cheers, mate. To the next six millennia.”

“Cheers.” Aziraphel raised his glass in a toast, also taking a sip, his smile widening as he set the glass down. It really was good wine, but the company he was in helped him truly appreciate it. “To the next six millennia.”

Crowley raised his glass, clinking them together. “May it be as eventful as the last.”

“Amen to that.”

**Author's Note:**

> So. There's a thing that's been going around social media for some time now lamenting the fact that while stories about long-lived individuals (mostly vampires) are common, they're usually more about "sucking neck" and less about "what happens if someone discovers a centuries-old crush?"  
> And, so, this fic was born. Hope you enjoyed it! -Irela


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